Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Rating: M

This is my first fan-fic, posted originally on Livejournal. Since posting on Livejournal I have (I hope) made improvements. I am posting the updated chapters here, as and when I feel they're good enough. If you have read the original version, the theme/plot is generally the same, but the final chapter is likely to alter and I will probably be adding further chapters too.

I own nothing. I am gratefully borrowing the characters and the story and doing this for fun.

All mistakes are mine. I hope you enjoy reading and would be grateful for your comments if you have the time.

This is all Stephen's fault.

Emily has been sent on another wild goose-chase to locate Miranda's wayward husband, the last I saw he was cocking his head at a black-haired green-eyed little thing from catering, trying to catch her eye over the platter of bite sized bagels she had balanced in her hand.

That is why, at present, I am standing behind the most perfect body in the universe all by myself. Of course nobody is looking at me, and that means there is nothing at all to prevent me from staring long and hard at the ridiculous curve of my boss' backside shift up and down in time with her impatience. Everybody thinks she is cold, they call her Snow Queen, but her gently rolling hips are anything but frosty. They are scorching hot. Anyone who cannot see that is an idiot, and I tell them so in my head all of the time.

Her ass, I cannot begin to adequately describe it. Her ass is a wonder, and here it is right in front of me like some kind of mirage. She is the answer to my desire, the hare to my greyhound, the carrot to my donkey, the flame to my moth. You get the idea. Miranda is all I see.

It will be all over soon though, once Emily comes strutting back with Stephen dutifully in tow, and then there will be no more ogling. We have been standing here for long enough. Soon she will begin twitching her shoulder, signalling that it is time to leave. I give us another six minutes. Six minutes for me to burn this image to my retina.

I have calculated that even without moving my feet at all, if I reach out with my free hand I could trace my fingertips over the taught curve starting at her lower back, dip my fingers in between her cheeks (as she stands the fabric of her Valentino dress hints at the dip before concealing it, both for modesty and no doubt to make me absolutely crazy with want. Not that she'd care what I think, but you know what I mean).

I have studied her backside for the past four minutes, and I am pretty confident that she is not wearing panties. Still I keep running my eyes over her ass just to make sure, because of course Miranda is far too proper to go panty-less, isn't she? But no, there is absolutely, definitely no panty-line here. I wonder if that's for Stephen's benefit. Then I stop wondering. The worthless little...

I can't usually get so consumed by her at these sorts of events because usually Emily is standing next to me. With Emily beside me, I only allow myself quick glances up, across and down, up, across and down. Accidental and casual, not at all obvious. It only offers a sort of champagne clouded memory of her body, with Emily beside me.

But right now, Emily is not here. Without Emily, I get stuck. Stuck fast on her wonderful body, how it moves and how it looks. I see her skin (she allows her body to be more exposed at these events than she does in the office).

I see how her flesh bulges slightly at her upper back before it is restrained by the thick material; How it is forced, quite un-Miranda-like, into shape, nipped and tucked, tight and firm, just beautiful.

The shoulders of an angel, void of any blemish but for the single freckle that kisses her neck just below her left ear. I've never noticed it before, and it steals my attention from her ass.

I see the real Miranda, proud, dangerous and vibrant, now with a freckle. I wonder what kind of noise she would make if I kissed it. She is a firework. She makes me dizzy with the desire to taste her and have her in anyway at all.

Suddenly I feel an intense need to sit down.

I feel my fingers twitch against the champagne flute in my hand so that I almost lose my grip, but I don't. I imagine the glass slicing through my grasp, shooting straight down to the floor in the tangible space between us. I imagine the liquid ricocheting back up in the air at angles, splattering on the hem of her dress, wetting it with my ineptitude.

I think of her shoulders bristling at the noise and then of her neck muscles twisting so that I may see her chin, her nose, her cheek, turn back towards me.

She looks at the disaster on the floor, flicks her hand over her backside to check for damp (I automatically follow that hand with my eyes). I swallow what I am certain are shards of glass but is merely air, then she flicks her eyes at mine, and I am gone.

My knees, my legs, they seem to disappear with her look. I expect her fury, a tightening of her mouth, and I fear the roll of her eyes, as if to say, 'you are so incompetent'. But I get something else entirely.

She frowns. Miranda never frowns. She is never seen to be out of control or confused, at least not in public. Not like this.

I don't understand what is happening. Her eyes keep me standing in silver shackles, but then she seems to gain inches in height, like a cobra ready to attack, and then she strikes in the most unexpected and frightening way.

Her shoulders are up, her free hand whips out and strikes my wrist, the wrist that had been holding a champagne flute, the champagne flute that is now in a million pieces on the floor.

My feet are wet.

This is not my imagination.

My heart begs to be freed and I lose my breath at her touch, which hurts, but I will take any sort of contact from her, pain or no. I dream of it. Her hand burns me and I break our eye contact to stare at the obtrusion against my wrist, not believing what I am seeing.

With eye contact gone the silver shackles are broken and I'm spinning down again towards the floor and I hope against hope that it never ends.

Her grip tightens on my wrist which she holds high up above my head, though when I look up, it is barely above the height of her shoulder. I don't understand how it feels so high when she is barely stretching. I silently beg for her to let me fall, but she tugs at me and her upper lip tightens at the effort, the spasm is reflected in the pulsing at her neck which is mirrored in my gut.

"No Andrea," I hear somebody say. It sounds like Miranda, but I didn't see her mouth move. The room is a kaleidoscope of colour and nonsensical pattern that mixes with the cool tones of a beautiful voice.

Miranda's head spins and I feel what can only be Champagne splatter my skin, and all I can presume now is that I have just made Miranda Priestly spill her own champagne. I feel sick.

"Don't you dare," demands the voice.

She is furious. I try to apologise but my stomach seems to be strangling its self and so I try to breathe but I can't seem to get a breath either. I have forgotten how to breathe. Her hand is still on my wrist. It's tight and endless.

Here it is. Miranda Priestley is going to kill me right here, in front of all of these people, in her dress that hangs just so, without her knowing that I am in love with her.

The space goes black but the voice continues at intervals, seeming louder and fuzzier as the seconds pass through me, and then I feel a solid warmth on my front and around my waist, cradling me like a baby. It feels like home.

A hand tightens further on my wrist. I fall into the darkness.

– –

"Come on, there we go," I hear through the black. "Can we get a glass of water over here pronto?"

"Oh my fucking God. The... selfish, selfish little thing. Oh my god. God. For God's sake. She will kill us both. Oh fuck. Fuck. God. She is going to kill me. She is going to kill me."

I can feel something warm on my cheek and I lean into it because it feels good, but someone said something about water. Does Miranda need water? I try to speak but right now I have to focus on my breathing, and the warm on my cheek is so nice, just give me a second and I'll go get water.

"All-right tiger calm it. Come on Six," the warmth jostles at my cheek and I don't want to open my eyes, I don't want to know where I am or what has happened to me, and why Emily appears to be here too. Why wasn't she there when I needed her, before I got lost inside my head and fainted. Typical.

I just want to lean further into the warmth and forget it all. I want to lean into it with Miranda, against the fabric of her dress, to press my nose and my mouth against the concavity of her side. I manage a clarifying inhale, only I can no longer detect her scent, she is not here, and the warmth belongs to somebody else.

"No," I hear myself gurgle and the pressure on my cheek is removed briefly before it is replaced with a slightly effeminate but nevertheless very forceful slap. I open my eyes and peer right into the beady eyes of Nigel. I shut my eyes again.

"Come back to us, come on Six. Pull it together, think of the chowder. Think of the chowder. There ya go."

I think of the chowder and my stomach growls so loudly that I am embarrassed on its behalf and my eyes open again in shock. Nigel turns away and then turns back and thrusts a glass of water in my face. I drink because it is what you are supposed to do when unexplained and unpleasant things happen to you, and I feel it swishing in my empty stomach, making me more nauseous. Oh, the water was for me? Wait...

"What the hell happened? Where is Miranda? Am I fired? Am I fired?!" I panic in a voice that seems far away, but Nigel hears me.

"You fell flat on your size six ass, with her husband, and I very much doubt it," Nigel replies, but I have already forgotten all of my questions and all I can think of is Miranda and that look she gave me just before everything went black.

I look at my wrist but her hand is gone. There is not even a mark to show for it. I wanted her to mark me, for proof, but there is nothing. When my eyes are not so fuzzy and the light is better I will check again, but for now I rub my wrist and Nigel places his hand over mine to stop me. His touch is a grave compared with Miranda's.

I stand before I realise I have done it, and it takes a few seconds for the room to catch up with my head, but when it does I begin to walk (okay stumble) forward.

"What the hell are you playing at Andrea? You will get us both sacked for Christ's sake."

I don't see Emily but I definitely hear her behind me somewhere, only I don't have time to look, I must find Miranda and get back to my place.

"Andrea get the hell back here," Emily spits.

"Baby doll, Miranda gave you very specific instructions to stay exactly here, where she put you whilst you were dead to the word, and I suggest you obey her command if you want to keep yourself in Chanel for the foreseeable future."

"Miranda what?" I babble. Nigel's hand is still on me, pulling me back.

"Told you to glue your size six ass right here. On this seat. Or as she put it, 'She will not move from this seat Nigel,' " he says, patting the seat I was sitting on a moment ago.

I turn around then to look at Emily who appears equally as nauseous as me, and back at Nigel, and decide he is telling the truth for no other reason than I'm too exhausted to argue. As I heave myself back down, Nigel swans frantically away back into the room I should be in and Emily comes around to take his place in font of me.

"Andrea-bloody-Sachs what the bloody hell have you done?" Emily presses the tips of her forefingers into the corner of each eye. "Don't tell me you have done what I think you have. If you have done what I think you have then God help us. God help me."

"Maybe."

"Oh. Oh my god!" Her eyelashes flutter, she attempts an eye roll and I suddenly no longer fear the same look from Miranda. No one can do it like her. I feel like telling Emily, but I don't.

"It seemed to work for you." It's even more pathetic out loud than it was in my head when I decided it would be a good thing to try, which is saying something.

"Bloody hell Andrea I wasn't actually being serious! For Christ's sake," She takes a deep breath and I do the same, "How long?"

"I don't know."

"How long, Andrea?"

I know the answer, it's blinking in fluorescent lights right in front of my eyes, but it seems that I just make her more angry the more I say, so I shrug my shoulders.

"You cannot tell Miranda about this do you understand? We will both be out of a job." Her whispered voice is frantic and aggressive.

"OK." I nod and hope she knows what she is right. I don't want to be out of a job. I want to be very much in.

– –

Nigel is back, whispering with Emily like a school girl. Emily has her hands on her hips. I would laugh if I was not so tired. Nigel raises his eyebrows in a carefully considered manner and scuttles away again.

I avoid eye contact with Emily.

I think I might be sick, but nothing happens when I retch, except that Emily takes a step away. Good. I'm going to blame it on her perfume.

Nigel is back sooner than I expected and his eyes are watery and his voice shakes when he says, "You're coming with me Six."

I go with him. What else can I do?

I walk on wobbly feet (I could blame it on the 5 inch Jimmy Choo's, but I've been practicing in the hallway whilst waiting for the Book for weeks and I am quite good at it now, even Serena tells me so). Apparently I am not quick enough because Nigel hoists me towards him, links my arm and trudges me out the door.

Before I know what is happening I am placed limb by limb, like a clothes dryer, into a waiting car.

I panic; surely they wouldn't knock me off like this? I am out of my depth, confused, hungry, tired, everything is a blur. Am I really going to...?

"Right lady, you stay here," Nigel peers in at me from the open door and then he flicks his eyes to the driver, "Roy you know what to do."

"He does?"

"Yes Ma'am." Roy nods through the mirror.

"But Miranda told me to stay on that seat," I say in a panic that is all too consuming and I lean toward the door in an attempt to get back to my designated seat.

"Yes," Nigel says it like I am an infant, "and then she said, 'take her to the car,' and, because I value my job very much, I took you to the car, where you will stay and await further instruction from our lady of the night."

I cannot seem to understand what Nigel is saying, to I try a different tack, "Roy? What the hell am I doing in Miranda's car?"

This cannot be good, so it has to be bad.

"Nigel?" I ask but he is already shutting the door on me and quite suddenly I am thrown into a dark, quiet, nicely cool cocoon of leather and that distinctive new-car smell.

"You okay, Andy?" Roy asks.

"Nope."

I clutch onto the leather but my palms are sweaty and I can't get the grip. I consider what has just happened. Not five minutes ago (I think it was five, then again i'm pretty sure I passed out just now so time has sort of gone out the window for me), I was standing behind my beautiful boss, fantasising about fantasies I should not have been, keeping my place, trying to keep up and be a good assistant. Now I am Miranda-less, sitting in her car, when I should be protecting her.

I feel completely hopeless, I have failed, I know it. All I wanted was to be a better person for her. And I messed it up.

I hear the door across from me open and I jump at the sound, it seeming louder than usual. My throat tries to strangle me as I see Miranda slide into the car in one movement, cat-like, perfect, furious. I can see it in her shoulder-blades, the way they are tight together and her shoulders high.

It's not the first time I am reminded of a lioness on the prowl, sharp shoulder blades slicing through the air as it prepares to feast on a helpless, completely unaware, scruffy little creature. Only I am very much aware of her presence. I look out my window before she turns fully towards me because I cannot deal with her disapproval.

Across the way, women in beautiful dresses and men in sharp suits mill outside the building. They mostly look happy, some are laughing, some are touching their partner on the arm or shoulder with forced affection. It reminds me of how Miranda does that to her husband when he is drunk.

I have imagined in unnecessarily graphic detail what it must be like when they have sex. Miranda touching his shoulders as she would a copy of TV Guide whilst his hands are on her bony hips from where they do not venture at all.

Miranda never looks happy at these events, and I know they make her nervous. Sure she smiles and tilts her head in the right way, but her smile is predatory and the tilt of her head a warning.

I feel myself swaying and for a moment I worry that I am passing out again, so I take a loud breath in to try and stay conscious. My trying to stay awake is too noisy though, and Miranda shoots her head around to look at me, and that is when I notice the street lights fluttering over her face and I realise the swaying motion is not me but the car, travelling to destination I should know, being Miranda's assistant, but I do not.

Her brow has a tiny, almost imperceptible frown. She would be furious if she knew that I could see it. Miranda hates to frown. She doesn't even frown when she suspects Freesias in her vicinity, but that doesn't mean she wouldn't strangle any florist with their very stems if she found one amongst the bouquets.

Not that she'd actually look for them. She'd get me to do that.

Her lips purse in the way that means she wants to say something, and is currently formulating the most eloquent and vicious sentence of which to shoot me down with and all I can do is stare back.

It's a lot like looking down the barrel of a gun. Then she inhales through her nose, and I hold my breath.

"I do not need to tell you there are many traits that I despise in a person," she begins. I sit on my hands. "One of which is cowardice. An inability to think for oneself and instead to mindlessly follow others in their quest for what they wrongly believe to be perfection."

"Miranda," I am stupid to interrupt her and I bite my tongue as she glares at me.

"I do not doubt your intentions were honourable, though I hope you realise how much you have disappointed me," Oh my God, she sounds upset. "More than that, you have disappointed yourself. I would hope."

"Miranda," I've done it again. I consider throwing myself out of the moving car right now, but the doors lock automatically. I still contemplate trying anyway. I mean, what have I got to lose, right? "I didn't want to be the smart, fat girl anymore."

Miranda snorted, "Well I can assure you Andrea you are no longer smart," and after a pause, she looks out the window. "Nor are you fat. Do not ever think that of yourself."

"But you said-"

She whips her head like a lasso, "I am aware of what I said Andrea. Really, if I wanted to hear my words echoed back at me I would have hired a parrot. And you are a woman, are you not?"

"Yes." I try not to make it come out like that turned me on.

"Well then," She says, as if something had been settled.

The journey continues, meandering through more lanes than I knew existed. At the fifth set of traffic lights, she speaks to me again, and I am grateful that she sounds a little calmer than before.

"Do you have adequate supplies in your little flat?"

I feel my cheeks turn pink, "I'm not entirely sure right now," I say.

"Did you somehow spill champagne in your ears as well as on my Valentino when you so selfishly lost consciousness?" She asks and I want to slap myself hard. Miranda does not like cowards. "Do you have food Andrea?"

Not a coward. Not a coward. "No Miranda. Please, I am so sorry."

Miranda stares at Roy through the mirror and Roy nods. Oh God, they're going to lock me in my own apartment and starve me to death. She shakes her head and looks out of her window, so I look out of mine because, whilst I am trying to remember if I actually do have anything in my fridge other than an empty cheese packet, I know I still might be on my way to a back alley where I will be shot at point-blank-range and, if I do escape, I will need to give the Police some directions to where I have been taken. The route looks familiar, but I am a little buzzed from Champagne and a lot buzzed from Miranda touching me earlier on, so it's difficult to say.

"Do you have any of these, these, cubes with you?" She asks after a little while and I feel sick as I begin to realise how much she knows about this, and how stupid I am for thinking she wouldn't know.

I don't want to answer her, because I don't want to be a coward and lie, but I also don't want to sit in her car nibbling on a cheese cube in the presence of Miranda Priestly. There is a strictly no-food rule in her car. Not even a Starbucks has seen the interior of this car.

I can hear her rattling through her purse, an unusual sound because Miranda does not look for anything herself. Oh God. I try to imagine what she could possibly need. I am, after all, still her assistant. Even if I wasn't I would do anything to make her life just a little easier. Still, she hasn't fired me yet. I don't think.

Wait, how long was I out for? Did she fire me whilst I was passed out on the floor and expect me to hear every word? Very likely. I would ask, but if I'm not fired yet, I will be if I ask her a goddam question about the status of my employment.

I want to scream when I sense something pale to the right of my head. I already know, as I turn to look, that it is Miranda's hand, and I blush when I realise that it was my purse she was looking through.

Oh wow. Right.

In her hand is a very familiar cube of cheddar cheese.

The sway of the car causes her hand to shudder lightly and the little cube of cheese bobs up and down in front of my mouth. I am thrown back to my childhood where I would spend long summers bobbing for apples. I was the best, not afraid to shove my face right into the water and thrash about until I felt the solid cool sphere of the apple in my grasp. But I am not a child, and Miranda, oh God, Miranda knows I am not a child, so I am completely thrown when she presses the cube lightly against my mouth.

I want to come. I realise in a flood that I am so utterly aroused and equally as petrified of what is happening, of how much I can hide under these conditions.

The cheese I have purchased is cheap, and Miranda's clever fingertips are pressing against the fatty, sweating cube and I bet she is wondering whether she can gain calories by osmosis. I am wondering this also. The thought of me making Miranda put weight on against her will is cause enough for me to open my mouth a fraction.

The cube rotates so one corner of it slips through my lips, to the barrier of my teeth that I forget to open further because my boss' fingertips are barely touching my mouth as she holds it.

I am trying to focus on the cheese, rather than on the cool smooth of Miranda's fingers, and how her neat fingernails are just hinting at drawing blood as they tickle my lip. I realise with surprise that the part where my upper lip becomes skin is wonderfully sensitive, almost to the point of pain, and her fingers are shaking slightly which causes her nails to itch a path straight to my core.

I don't know why, but I steal a glance at her, and her eyes are trained, naturally, to the task in hand. That is, she is staring at the cheese, at her hand, oh, at my mouth. And because she is staring at mine, I stare at hers and my jaw drops a fraction when I see her mouth lightly parted, and when my jaw does drop, her own mouth opens a fraction too and and now...now I can see her wet tongue inside, behind her sharp teeth.

Her tongue twitches when I snake my own out to take the first tentative taste of a cheese I am already very well acquainted with (In answer to Emily's question I have not tasted anything else for nine days), and when I sink my teeth into it, Miranda's teeth bite down also, just a little bit, into air, as I am staring at her mouth I spot it happening.

I groan at Miranda treating me like a child, miming the action like a mother does with a stubborn child, 'here comes the choo choo train,' I hear in my head but then that thought disappears because Miranda is no longer looking at my mouth, she is looking in my eyes as though I have just spat the cheese right onto her Valentino (and I haven't, the tiny bite I have taken is very much present in my mouth).

Whilst I chew methodically, Miranda pulls her hand back slightly, so for the next bite I have to lean toward her a bit and I am beyond embarrassed at this, but I do it anyway because:
1) I am starving
2) I've got to do something with the remaining cheese in Miranda's hand
3) you do not disobey Miranda when she looks at you like that.

I rest my palms on the seat between us, but my fingertips encounter soft velvet where Miranda's dress has spread slightly over the leather. I make the split second decision not to acknowledge it at all. Well, not visually. Psychologically the feeling is more I can manage and the gush in emotion surges my body forward a fraction more, and oh my Lord, Miranda's face is pink and my stomach is churning more than it did when I dropped the flute because, in my panic to try and act nonchalant, I have inadvertently closed my mouth around the tips of Miranda Priestly's fingers.

I don't know what the hell to do. There is a moment of even more awkward embarrassment where I have a chunk of cheese on my tongue, not daring to chew for fear of biting Miranda (though God how I would love to just sink my teeth gently into her...), and saliva is rapidly filling my open mouth. Soon it will be coating her fingertips and I think if that happens I will cry, but before it does Miranda carefully retracts her fingers and oh so very softly rubs the pad of her thumb over my lips. She does the same with her forefinger.

I tentatively react by brushing my lips over them in turn, aiming to rid her fingers of any lingering fat from the cube. I clearly got that wrong though, because before I can register just how cool and perfect it felt, her hand is back in her lap and she is cradling it with the other like it is wounded.

Crap.